Between The Lies
by DemonsInsideMe
Summary: Everybody lies, even a little fib. Lawyers lie, bankers lie, cops lie. Lucius Malfoy was a liar; he was perfect politician material. Draco hated him because of this. Thoughts on liars and when they take it too far. More to come.
1. Chapter 1

**_"There comes a point in a web of lies where you must realize the importance of balancing the truth and a falsehood..."_**

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters therein. However, this plot and story are my original work.

To be an effective liar, one must possess certain skills. These skills must be honed—almost deadly in their sharpness—and they must be deceptive enough to elude detection. A good lair must be calm, collected, and always prepared with the next carefully constructed fib.

Before you even get into sincere lies, you start with sarcasm. Sarcasm is a stepping stone to full-blown lying because it teaches you to find a balance between too much and too little. If you rely on sarcasm too heavily, people will get used to it, and no one will believe a word you say. That alone would end the chain of events. But always being truthful teaches your mind and body certain habits when you do lie. Find a balance.

At first, when you begin to learn the craft, you pick up little tips here and there. Skills such as how to keep a straight face, how not to look guilty, and how to look a person in the eye are some of the beginner skills you must acquire in order to be a convincing liar. Look a person in the eye and tell them a complete falsehood. If you can do it with a straight face, you've graduated from level one.

The next step, as you continue to polish your skills, is overcoming telltale signs. Everyone has one; some are just less obvious than others. For instance, if you tend to blink profusely when you know what you are saying is untrue, get rid of it. You may not even realize you are doing it, but others certainly will. Make a conscious effort to stop yourself from making these little errors. It's like poker. You've got to adapt to the environment—bluff.

After surmounting the unconscious habit, you've got to learn the structure of a good lie. Don't just make something up off the top of your head. Your story must have substance, or at least a minimal amount of proof to convince your audience. For instance, telling your parents you are with a friend who happens to be hanging out with your sibling at the time will not fly. Someway, somehow, a parent _will_ find out. Never depend on others to support your lie.

Although some find lying easy to do—and perhaps it is to them—it requires true finesse to be an expert. The especially good ones can tell a lie quicker than you can process it, and you'll believe them simply because they are _that good. _But a truly superior liar also knows one very important thing: when to stop. There comes a point in a web of lies where you must realize the importance of balancing the truth and a falsehood, and this point is not always as obvious as being 'caught in the act', as it were.

Let me explain.

When I was a little boy, my father never took no for an answer. He did as he pleased, when he pleased, and God help any man, woman or beast who stood in his way. I never questioned his authority. He was a nearly perfect liar. He could tell my mother he loved her in the morning, then turn around and tell the Dark Lord that she meant nothing. At first, when I was young, naive and innocent, I thought it was for her own good--to protect her. Now I know better.

He used every one of his friends, acquaintances and even family to his own advantages. He would manipulate a person so well, they would think up is down if he told them so. He had no regrets. Everything he did was firm and resolute. Some would call these great character traits. I called them lies. Everything about him was a lie; I don't even know who my father is...was. My father was never the best at lying. Oh, no. You see, one must know the thin line between just enough and too much; you must tread carefully. He broke that line and drew himself a new one whenever he crossed it. He never stopped lying, and that was his downfall.

There was not one person in his life to whom he did not lie.

Even his only son.


	2. Chapter 2

The brilliant petals of summer flowers fade and wilt, curling into pitiful brown lumps on the ground. Their strong stems--emerald, jade, ivy, and bottle green--weaken in intensity, become lighter and less pronounced. They become stiff and lifeless, dancing together to give off a rough, hollow tune when the wind blows through their midst.

Long, untamed field grains grow brown and crispy, rattling in the breeze like some mystical spirit song. Leaves fall softly, shades of brown, auburn, burnt orange, amber, peach, brilliant reds and oranges carpeting the bare ground at the feet of majestic oaks, maples, willows and birches. The sweet, heady odor of crushed rose petals fills the air. The edges of a small, gurgling brook are coated with dainty frost patterns.

I step over a fallen, decaying log, my footsteps muffled, even in the stillness. I kick up leaves, turning over the dark, frost-soaked side to the thawing powers of the sun. The faded, unsaturated appearance of the fields and skeletal shadows cast by the trees is eerie, almost macabre in its depression. The bright carpet beneath these trees seems so out of place in the gloom. What is their secret? What gives these little, insignificant shreds of life the right to be so damned _happy_?

I sigh. Surely, leaves do not have arguments with their fathers. They do not deal with deceit, drugs and alcoholism. They do not see their mother wasting away to nothing under the influence of their father's will. But leaves are stepped on, crushed, and forgotten. They are left outside in the dark, left to rot and decay and freeze in the bitter chill of the world.

Just like me.

I sneer with contempt. Every family has its problems, and every child thinks theirs is the worst. But, you see, mine _are. _Every time I look upon my father's pale, deceitful face, I know this to be true. Every time I see my mother's tears—the ones she tries to hide from me, her ten-year-old son—I know. Every time my father stumbles to my room at night, drunk, I know. My family has problems any well-to-do person would shudder to contemplate.

"Draco, I'm going to teach you a game," he whispers. I can smell the firewhiskey on his breath.

"I don't want to, Daddy," I say, snuggling into my blankets. His face turns red and he wrenches me out of bed.

"We're going to play a game, and you are going to like it," he says. His voice is rough, his words slurred. He presses his hand to my cheek, runs his fingers along my young, undeveloped body, and I cringe, try to pull away.

"Daddy, stop," I say, closing my eyes, trying to block out the feelings.

His hands roam my bare, pale body, covering every inch before he reaches the place I hate for him to touch. He runs his long fingers over my small penis, and despite how I hate the man, I love the feeling, and blood rushes to the area, making my penis stand erect. Tears run down my face because I know this is wrong, I know this is bad and I hate it, but my body loves it.

"Daddy, please, stop!" I say, pushing against his broad shoulders in a futile attempt to get him off of me. His fingers probe my entrance, and I pull away, tears streaming down my face in the darkness. His liquor-filled breath wafts across my face, and I hold my breath. After all is said and done, after he's had his fun and his arousal is satisfied, he leaves me--shuddering, cold and violated--in the darkness of my bedroom. I cannot be here, in this place. It smells of him, _reeks_ of his deceitful presence.

It's a _game_. It will be _fun._

I dress swiftly and make my way silently to the kitchen, out the side door into the gardens. I breathe deeply, inhaling the dark, bitter winter frost, clearing my mind and body of his presence, his touch. I cry, teardrops freezing on my cheeks. I rock forward and backward, arms locked around my knees, until the tears stop and I fall into a fitful sleep. This is a routine in my home. Whenever my father has been drinking, or has had an especially horrid day, he will do this. Why he does not go to my mother's arms for comfort, I do not know. He simply has his way with me and casts me aside.

My father is sick, and he hides it from the world with his lies. He hides it from himself with the bitter taste and sweet numbness of the drink.


End file.
